“Are you sure that Ruisín has been murdered?” he demanded, aghast.
Laisran confirmed it with a quick nod of his head.
“And are you Fidelma of Cashel?” Lígach added, turning to Fidelma. “I heard that you were attending the Fair. If so, please undertake the task of inquiring how Ruisín came by his death for I have heard great things of you. As organizer of the Fair, this is my jurisdiction and I willingly grant you the right to pursue these inquiries. If we do not clear this matter up then the reputation of the Aenach Carman will be blighted for it will be said, murder can be done within the king’s shadow and the culprit can escape unknown and unpunished.”
Before Fidelma could protest, Laisran had agreed.
“There is none better than Fidelma of Cashel to dissect any web of intrigue that is woven around a murder.”
Fidelma sighed in resignation. It seemed that she had no choice. It was time to be practical.
“I would like another tent where I may sit and examine the witnesses to this matter.”
Lígach was smiling in his relief.
“The tent next to this one is at your disposal. It is my own.”
“Then I shall want all involved in this matter to be gathered outside, including the widow, Muirgel. I will tarry a moment more with the body.”
Lígach hastened off, while Laisran stood awkwardly as Fidelma bent down to examine the body of Ruisín very carefully.
“What should I do?” he asked.
Fidelma smiled briefly up at him.
“You will witness my inquiry,” she replied, “for I would not like to be accused of interference by the Chief Brehon of Laighin.”
“I will guarantee that,” confirmed Laisran.
Fidelma was carefully examining the body of the dead man.
“What are you looking for?” the abbot asked after a while.
“I do not know. Something. Something out of the ordinary.”
“The extraordinary thing is the fact that the man was poisoned, surely?”
“Yet we have to be sure that we do not miss anything.” She rose to her feet.
“Now, let us question the witnesses.”
Fidelma and Laisran seated themselves on camp stools within Lígach’s tent. There was a table and a scribe had been sent for to record the details. He was a young, nervous man, who sat huddled over his inks and leaves of imported papyrus.
“Who shall I bring in first, Sister?” asked Lígach.
“Who organized this drinking contest?”
“Rumann, who was Ruisín’s friend, and Cobha, who supplied the ale.”
“Bring in Rumann first.”
First through the tent door came a young, eager terrier, its ears forward, his jaws slightly opened, panting, and its neck straining against a rope. The animal hauled a burly man into the tent who was clutching the leash. It leapt toward Fidelma in its excitement, but in a friendly fashion with short barks and its tail wagging furiously.
The man on the end of the leash snapped at it and tugged the animal to obedience at his heel. Then he gestured apologetically.
Rumann was almost the twin image of Ruisín, but with brown tousled hair. He was burly man who also had the look of a smithy about him. Indeed, such was the craft he pursued.
“Sorry, Sister, but Cubheg here is young and excitable. He won’t harm you.”
He turned to a tent post and tied the rope around it. As the dog continued to tug and pull forward, Rumann glanced ’round.
“With your permission, Sister?” he indicated a bowl on the table. There was a jug of ale nearby. He poured some ale in the bowl and set it down before the animal, which began to noisily lap at it with great relish. “Cubheg likes a drink of ale. I can’t deny him. Now, how can I help you?”
“This contest: whose idea was it?” demanded Fidelma without preamble.
“Crónán of the Fidh Gabhla issued the challenge.”
“For what purpose?”
Rumann shrugged.
“The rivalry between the Fidh Gabhla and the Osraige is generations old.”
“This is so,” whispered Abbot Laisran at her side.
“During the games these last few days, there have been several contests and the Osraige have held their own with the Fidh Gabhla,” went on Rumann. “Crónán then challenged my friend, Ruisín, to a contest which would finally decide who were the greater at this fair, Osraige or the Fidh Gabhla.”
Fidelma’s mouth turned down in disapproval.
“A clan made great simply by whoever could drink the most?”
“Sister, you must know that it is an old contest known in many lands? Whoever can drink most and still remain on their feet is the champion. This was to be the last great contest between us at the Aenach Carman.”
“Why was Ruisín chosen to take part?”
“He was our champion. And he was a great drinker,” Rumann said boastfully. “He would drink a barrel of ale and still lift the empty barrel above his head at the end of it.”
Fidelma hid her cynicism.
“So the challenge was to him or to the Osraige?”
“Ruisín was champion of Osraige. It was the same thing.”
“So explain what happened at this contest.”
“Ruisín and Crónán met at the tent of Cobha the ale maker. He supplied the ale. And. .”
“And which side was Cobha on?” queried Fidelma sharply.
“He was from the Fidh Gabhla. But the supplier of the ale in these contests is supposed to maintain neutrality.”
“Was there an impartial referee?”
“We were all referees. The men of Osraige and the men of Fidh Gabhla were there to see fair play.”
“No women?”
Rumann looked pained.
“It was not a contest that appealed to women,” he said.
“Quite so,” replied Fidelma grimly. “So a crowd was gathered ’round?”
“Cobha poured two jugs of ale. .”
“From the same barrel?”
Rumann frowned and thought.
“I think so. One jug apiece. Each man took up a position at either end of a wooden table on which the jugs were set. At a word from Cobha, they began to drink. Each man drained the first jug without a problem. Cobha brought the second jug. . my friend, Ruisín, had picked up the second jug when he staggered. He dropped the jug and he suddenly fell back. How the men of the Fidh Gabhla jeered, but I saw him writhing on the ground. I knew he was ill. Within a moment he was dead. That is all I know.”
Fidelma was quiet for a moment.
“You say that Ruisín was your friend?”
“He was.”
“He was a smith?”
“Like myself. We often worked together when our chieftain needed two pairs of bellows instead of one.” “Would you say that Ruisín was a strong man, a healthy man?”
“I have known him since he was a boy. There was never a stronger man. I refuse to believe that a surfeit of alcohol would kill him. Why, just one jug of ale and he went down like a cow at the slaughter.”
Fidelma sat back and gazed at the man with interest.
“Did your friend have enemies?”
“Enemies? Why, was he not our champion and being challenged by the Fidh Gabhla? The Fidh Gabhla had enough motive to ensure that their man should win.”
“But in these circumstances, there would be no victory.”
Rumann pursed his lips as though he had not thought of that fact.
“Did he have any other enemies?”
Rumann shook his head.
“He was regarded a first class craftsman; he had plenty of work. He was happily married to Muirgel and had no other cares in the world except how to enjoy his life more fully. No one would wish him harm. .”
“Except?” prompted Fidelma as his voice trailed away and the cast of thought came into his eyes.
“Only the men of the Fidh Gabhla,” he replied shortly. Fidelma knew that he had thought of something and was hiding it.
Crónán, the drinking champion of the Fidh Gabhla, was shown in next; a surly man with a mass of dark hair and bright blue eyes, which flickered nervously as if seeking out potential danger.